


The Price of Renovation

by St_Salieri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Season/Series 06, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St_Salieri/pseuds/St_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wakes up after a hunt to find his brother missing.  Even worse, it appears that - according to everyone else in the world - he has never had a brother.  Sam sets out on a quest to find Dean while dealing with the knowledge that he is the only one who remembers that his brother ever existed.  As the world falls apart around him, Sam struggles to find his brother while managing the vivid dreams he has of Dean and trying to maintain a grasp on his own sanity.  General Season Six spoilers.</p><p>See the <a href="http://eyestoowide.livejournal.com/30074.html">Art Post</a> by the wonderful eyestoowide!</p><p>Written for SPN/J2 Big Bang 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

_The sun is a wan glow in the slate-covered sky. He can hear the harsh caw of crows and carrion birds, wings fluttering restlessly from the nearby trees. Blood drips at his feet, spattering on the trampled grass and mud. The wind moans in his ears, and he can't tell whether it carries a human voice or just the sound of the sky crying above him._

_"Is it over yet?"_

_He barely recognizes his own voice, sounding as if it has been dragged from his throat over broken glass._

_"It's never over, Sammy. You know that."_

_Dean steps into his line of sight. Blood cakes his brother's face and neck and stains the rims of his fingernails, as if he's been clawing at something, as if he's been fighting for survival._

_"Did we win?"_

_Dean smiles sadly at the question and turns his head to look off into the distance. The wind has picked up, and in the east the sky is growing dark._

_"I don't know yet," Dean says. "I guess it depends on you now."_

_The ground trembles beneath his feet, and the crows in the trees take to the sky in a burst of wings. The darkness in the sky is growing, slowly and inexorably, and he finds he can't tear his eyes away. He starts when Dean lays a heavy hand on his shoulder._

_"I'm sorry," his brother says. "I would give anything for you to not be here."_

_And with a load groan, the earth rips itself apart. Dean's hand is torn from his shoulder. He whirls around, frantic, but his brother is gone._

_"Dean! DEAN!"_

 

 

With a jolt, Sam woke up.

He blinked at the ceiling for a long moment, waiting for his racing heart to slow down. Soft smudges of shadow played across the white surface above him, and he turned his head to see the sun-dappled leaves of the tree outside his window shift in a light breeze. It was morning, if the angle of the light was anything to go by, and he was in a room he recognized as one of Bobby's spare bedrooms.

He was lying in a bed, the pillow beneath his head wet with sweat. His body ached as if he'd gone ten rounds with a Hellhound, and by craning his neck he could see the bandages wrapped tight around his thigh and several fingers of his left hand. He noticed a glass of water sitting on the plain nightstand beside him, but his hand shook too much when he tried to grab it. With a muttered curse, Sam began the slow, painful process of getting vertical in hopes of improving his situation.

He'd just managed to prop himself more or less upright when he heard footsteps approaching from behind the closed bedroom door. The door swung open and Bobby poked his head around. He raised his eyebrow at Sam.

"Or you could just sit up like a moron and split those stitches I worked so hard to put in."

With a gentleness that belied his words, Bobby came closer to the bed and shoved a few pillows behind Sam's back, easing him to lie back against them. He lifted the glass to Sam's lips and let him take a long sip, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder when he was done.

"Nice to finally see you awake, boy," he said gruffly.

Sam fell back against the pillows and squinted at the ceiling. His leg throbbed with a dull ache, and if he moved it he could feel those stitches Bobby was talking about.

"How long was I out?" he asked, wracking his brain to try to remember exactly what he'd been doing to land himself in this situation. His mind was still a bit fuzzy around the edges – hopefully Bobby would be able to fill in any holes.

"It's been almost a week," Bobby said. He pulled up a chair from the desk under the window and settled down next to Sam's bed. "Your fever was pretty high for most of that, so I wouldn't be surprised if you don't remember it all."

Sam frowned and poked at the wound on his leg. Bobby slapped his hand away.

"Hey! Are you trying to hurt yourself again? That thing took a big enough chunk out of you as it is."

Sam gave Bobby his best apologetic look.

"Sorry. I just don't remember how this happened."

"Ghoul," Bobby said. "I think. You were pretty out of it by the time you showed up here. Between the poison in that thing's claws – and don't ask me what that's about – and the way you were bleeding out from that leg wound, you're lucky you didn't wind up in a ditch somewhere with the car wrapped around you. Next time save me the heart attack and just call me, would you? I'll come pick you up. Hell, I won't even yell that loud."

Sam smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he said again. Everything was still fuzzy, but...he seemed to remember fighting a ghoul. He couldn't quite recall any of the details, but he supposed it would come to him eventually after he'd had a chance to rest up and get something to eat.

Right on cue, his stomach growled. Bobby grinned at him.

"Sounds like you're getting back to normal. Hang tight and I'll get you some toast or something. Just so you know, this is the last time you get breakfast in bed, princess. From now on, you can shift your lazy ass yourself."

"Aw," Sam pouted. "Does this mean you won't carry me to the bathroom? I need to take a leak, man."

Bobby made a face at him. "I'm sure I've got a cane or something around here somewhere," he muttered. "I'll get it for you in a minute." He clapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, taking Sam's empty water glass and heading for the door.

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam fiddled with the blanket and shifted his weight with a wince, trying to get comfortable. "Hey, is Dean around?"

Bobby froze, his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head and gave Sam a curious look over his shoulder.

"Come again?"

"Dean. Where is he?" The look Bobby was giving him made him want to check a mirror to see if something particularly embarrassing had happened to his face while he'd been unconscious. "What is it?"

Bobby shook his head. "I'm sorry – _who_ did you say?"

Sam froze and gripped the sheet hard, twisting it between his fingers. Something in the way Bobby was asking made his blood run cold.

"Dean," he said slowly. "Is he here?"

Bobby shook his head, and Sam felt his empty stomach clench in knots. "What...where did..." he started haltingly before swallowing hard. "Bobby, what happened?"

"Whoa, hey," Bobby muttered, coming over to put a hand on his forehead. Sam jerked away, and Bobby shook his head at him. "Maybe you should rest, okay? I don't think your fever’s quite gone yet."

"Something happened to him, didn't it?"

Sam looked around the room wildly. His backpack lay in the corner, his shoes and flannel tangled together around the straps. There was no sign of Dean's duffel – or his boots, or his knife, or any of the other pieces of crap he shed throughout the day. No candy wrappers, no beer bottles, no tacky magazines. Even if Dean was in another room, some of his junk should have inevitably wound up in Sam's space, migrating there as it usually did. It was an irrefutable law of nature.

Sam grabbed Bobby’s sleeve and gave it a shake. He couldn't open his mouth for a moment, afraid that if he did his voice would quaver (or, more embarrassingly, that he'd start crying).

"Something happened," he finally said, and it wasn't a question this time. "Did the ghoul...?" He couldn't bring himself to actually ask the question. He'd know, wouldn't he? He'd know somehow if Dean was actually....

Bobby dragged the chair closer and sat down heavily again, eying his shirt sleeve as if debating whether it was worthwhile to try to disentangle Sam. He seemed to give up on the idea.

"Son, you need to calm down," he said, and Sam bristled at the tone. He wasn't a child, or dangerous, or crazy – although he was starting to wonder about the last one.

"Just tell me what happened to Dean," he pleaded, and Bobby's face softened.

"I know you're hurting. I got some painkillers in the other room. Why don't you let me get you some and you take another rest? We'll talk more when you're feeling better."

"Not until you tell me." He tightened his shaking fingers on Bobby's sleeve and heard the flannel tear. Bobby just shook his head mutely, looking more confused than Sam had seen him in a long time.

"Fine. I'll find him myself," Sam growled, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and leaning forward to stand up. The blood rushed away from his head and he wobbled briefly before Bobby pushed him back onto the bed.

"Stay down, will you? Christ, I've never met anyone more pig-headed." He smoothed the sheet and gave Sam's chest a cautious pat. "I promise, we'll find whoever it is you're looking for once you can stand without falling down."

The room spun around him. Sam took shallow breaths, wincing at the flare of agony in his injured leg. He could feel the warm, dulling rush of fever waiting just over the edge for him, and he let out a sob before he could help it.

"Please," he said one last time, as calmly as he possibly could. The play of light and shadow on the ceiling from the beautiful spring day outside mocked him, but anything was easier than looking at Bobby right then. "Just tell me what happened to my brother."

There was a long pause.

"Sam," Bobby said helplessly. "I don't know what to tell you, son. I don't know who this Dean is. You've never _had_ a brother."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It took another three days before he was well enough to be out of bed and hobbling around with one of Bobby's canes. Three days of lying in bed waiting for the fever to vanish, waiting for his leg to heal enough to put his weight on it, waiting for his questions to be answered.

Dean was...was it right to say he was gone? Because _gone_ implied that he'd been there in the first place, and according to Bobby he'd never been there at all.

"Your name is Sam Winchester," Bobby had explained patiently that first night after Sam awoke, perched on the edge of the chair next to the bed as if he thought he might need a quick escape route in case Sam grabbed his shirt again. "Your parents are John and Mary. They've...well. Your dad died a few years back, and your mom passed on when you were a baby. You're their only child – and you're a hunter, like your daddy. You don't have a brother. Or a sister, for that matter. Never did."

"His name is Dean," Sam said through clenched teeth. "He's four years older than me."

Bobby spread his hands helplessly. "No. I'm sorry, Sam, but that's simply not true."

"He's older than me," Sam repeated stubbornly. "He took care of me growing up. Hell, he practically raised me. He's immature and annoying and loyal and reckless, and he has mom's smile. He's the strongest person I know. He saved my life. He's saved _your_ life, Bobby. How can you not remember him?"

Bobby stared at Sam for a long moment, and Sam held his breath and waited. When Bobby sighed heavily and ran his hand down his face, Sam collapsed back against the pillows in despair.

"Maybe there was something in that poison you got dosed with," Bobby muttered. "Not that there's a lot of literature on ghouls, but it could be we're dealing with something with long-term hallucinogenic properties. I suppose I could do some research." He got to his feet and handed Sam the Tylenol he'd brought up with him. "Take those. I want to make sure that fever stays down."

Sam ignored the pills and glared up at Bobby. Bobby's face softened.

"I promise, I'll look into this. We'll figure out what’s going on. I don't know, maybe a curse? Although it would have to be a pretty specific one, given the constraints, and there ain't a whole lot of creatures who can pull off something like..."

Bobby's voice trailed off as he disappeared out the bedroom door and down the stairs. Sam dry-swallowed the pills and slammed his hand against the bed hard enough to wrench his broken fingers. The pain was better than the dull ache of the fever, and for a moment he simply lay back and stared at the ceiling, planning his next move.

A curse wasn't entirely out of the question, he decided – although Bobby was obviously the one who was cursed. Sam tried to think if they'd made any enemies recently, and the depressing answer was _no more than the usual number who are always trying to kill us_ , which wasn't entirely helpful. Something had taken Dean, that was clear, and the only clue Sam had was that Bobby didn't seem to remember him.

It wasn't a great place to start, but it was all he had.

Bobby's house wasn't the easiest place to maneuver with a cane, what with the piles of books and manuscripts and magical detritus, but Sam managed, and every day his leg got stronger. He joined Bobby in the den as soon as he was able to get out of bed and commandeered half of Bobby's stack of literature, much to the older man's annoyance. Sam ignored him, just as he ignored the suggestions that he had been drugged or brainwashed or put under a spell of some kind.

It simply wasn't possible, he rationalized. There was no way he could have simply imagined his entire life up to this point in time – imagined his _family_. The idea that he could have grown up an only child was something he could barely picture, even when he tried to think about what it would have been like.

He grew more frustrated the longer he stared at the books. There were only two creatures he knew about that had the power to alter reality this way – or to seemingly alter it. But neither alternative was entirely satisfying. A djinn would create a reality that fulfilled his deepest wishes, and this was about as far from ideal as it got. He thought long and hard about whether a trickster could be involved, but that didn't feel right either. Tricksters always had a point to their deceptions, and this was one he couldn't see the punch line to.

Also, he didn't recall pissing any tricksters off recently.

There was still the possibility – the _greater_ possibility, if you asked Sam – that Bobby's memories had somehow been tampered with. As their leads began to peter out, Bobby indulged Sam's suspicion and agreed to perform some simple spells that would be able to detect if either of them were under the influence of anything demonic. It didn't come with an iron-clad guarantee by any means – there were too many things in the world that were impervious to spells like these – but at least it would give them a starting point.

Sam did his best to hide his despair when both tests came back negative. He had managed to talk himself into the belief that it would become immediately obvious that Bobby's memories had been changed, and that once Bobby believed him they would be able to fix things and find a way to bring Dean back.

Bobby wisely gave him some space after that, and Sam took his cane for an unsteady walk into the muddy yard to sit in the Impala for a while.

If there was any place in the universe that should still hold the impression of Dean, it was his beloved car. Sam eased himself into the passenger seat and closed his eyes, breathing in the warm, moist smell of leather and imagining that they were on their way to another hunt, that Dean would come ambling out of the house any minute with his bag slung over his shoulder and a complaint about the sorry state of the roads.

 

_"Hey, Sammy. Ready to hit the highway?"_

_"Dude, I've been waiting an hour for you. How long does it take you to pack your hair gel?"_

_"Shut up, man. Bobby had some books he wanted to give us – said they'd be helpful for this hunt."_

_"You know that you can buy your own porn on the road, right?"_

_Dean swats him on the arm and Sam answers with his own punch before they settle in and start both the engine and an argument about the music._

 

Sam swallowed hard around the tightness in his throat and slowly reached forward to open the glove compartment. He shut his eyes for a long moment, bracing himself, then took a look inside.

A gun, but not one of Dean's. A pile of fake IDs, but only ones with Sam's face. Napkins and ketchup packets and a lone nondescript receipt that showed payment for a single cup of coffee.

There was no shoebox full of cassettes beneath the front seat, held together with duct tape and a prayer and spilling out the greatest hits of hair metal. There were no half-eaten bags of chips or candy bars tucked into likely crevices. There were no old t-shirts in the back seat in Dean's size, useful in a pinch for mopping up blood or spilled motor oil.

The trunk was equally impersonal – none of Dean's favorite weapons, none of his notes in the margins of the books, none of the spare boots that badly needed patching that he refused to throw out. Sam found his own wallet back there and went through it slowly. His driver's license was unmarked on the back, not showing the place where Dean had defaced it in a fit of pique after Sam had done something to piss him off. The note Dean had left him – _Don't forget it's your turn to do the laundry next time, bitch_ in his brother's messy upper-case scrawl – was gone.

And Dean's information was completely missing from the contact list in Sam's phone.

He didn't know how long he stayed out there, leaning over the open trunk, suspended in helpless grief, before Bobby came looking for him. He said nothing about the tear tracks on Sam's face, for which Sam was utterly grateful.

Sam pulled the car in to Bobby's front yard, killed the motor, and stared sightlessly at the house while the engine ticked over in the cool evening air.

Another lead gone, and he was right back where he had started.

He let his head thunk back against the seat and scrubbed at his eyes. Five days of driving, and he was no closer to an answer.

As far as he could tell, all of the people Dean had saved were still alive – although how that was possible, Sam had no idea. Aside from that fact, it was as if Dean was a complete nonentity, as if his brother hadn't made one damn bit of difference to the world one way or the other. Just the thought made Sam want to scream in righteous anger.

And no one seemed to miss him. No one felt his absence – except for Sam.

Sam didn't know how long he sat listless in the driver's seat before Bobby appeared with a look of thunder. He pointed at Sam then at the house before disappearing back inside. Sam winced, unfolded himself from the car, grabbed his bag and followed.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table nursing a beer, and the fact that he didn't offer one wasn't lost on Sam.

"I guess you didn't get my note?" he asked sheepishly.

Bobby opened his fingers, stared at the crumpled piece of paper he held, and threw it at Sam.

"Oh, I got it. Moron. Your phone stop working too?"

Sam winced again and collapsed into the seat opposite Bobby, unfolding the note.

_I need to find some answers. I'll be back in a couple of days. – Sam_

Bobby took a long drink and eyed Sam carefully. "So did you find your answers?" he finally asked.

Sam stared out the kitchen window. The sun had set not long ago, and the sky still glowed with fading pinks and oranges. Spring was in full bloom, but he could already feel the damp heat of summer inexorably approaching. Dean had loved summer as a kid – partly because he had a genuine excuse to be out of school, but mostly because it gave him the opportunity to be outside from dawn to dusk. That was in the early days, when they were young enough that Dad had turned training into a game. The "Winchester Boy Scouts" he used to call them, all while teaching them how to shoot and how to sharpen a knife safely and how a field dressing should be applied.

Sometimes Dad would disappear for a week at a time on one of his hunts, and then Dean would take Sam on one of his all-day rambles, exploring the neighborhood they happened to be staying in that particular month. They would tramp through small woods and cross creeks and empty fields, and Sam turned brown as a berry in the summer sun while Dean burned pink and freckled because he hated wearing sunscreen. And sometimes they'd pass a gas station and Dean would count out his quarters to get them fudgesicles. They would sit outside under a tree and watch the heat shimmer on the roadway like a mirage while the chocolate dripped past their fingers, and those were the best days of all.

It simply wasn't possible for those memories to be fake, no matter what Bobby said.

"I went to Lawrence," Sam said quietly, still staring out the window. "I wanted to check around a bit, talk to Missouri."

Bobby coughed. "Missouri _Moseley_? Well, that ain't a name I've heard in a long time. What did she have to say?"

"She remembered me."

Sam picked at the edge of the table, digging his fingernail into the soft wood. Yes, Missouri had remembered him – and only him. She didn't remember meeting Dean before, or that Sam had ever had a brother.

No one in the town remembered. A few of the older residents recalled John Winchester – _"Oh yes, with the fire. What a shame; such a nice young couple they were, and him left to raise that little boy all alone."_ – but not that he'd had two sons.

"And?" Bobby asked softly.

Sam blinked and realized that he'd been staring at the table top. He shook his head mutely. A moment passed, and then a fresh bottle of beer slid across the table into his field of view. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, then was gone.

"Thanks," Sam whispered, peeling at the wet label.

Bobby sighed heavily. "I'm worried about you, son. It's been almost a month, and we're no closer to finding the answers you're looking for."

"I'm not giving up."

"Did I say you had to? But Sam, listen to reason. We've tried every charm, every talisman, every counter-spell. Now, which is more likely? That you've got this missing older brother who no one has ever heard of, not even folk who've known you your whole life? Or that..."

Sam fixed him with a hard stare. "Or what? Say it."

"Look," Bobby said gently. "You've been through a lot these last few years. Losing your girl like that, then your father. You've just caught one bad break after another, and there's no shame in admitting that it may have taken its toll on you. That's all I'm saying."

Sam barked out a mirthless laugh. "So I've finally cracked. Is that it? Started making up an imaginary family because I've lost my real one?"

"Now, that's not what I'm..."

"It sounds like what you're saying." Sam pushed the beer away in disgust and stood up to pace over to the window. "I know I sound crazy, Bobby. I know I don't have any proof. But I _know_ I have a brother, as sure as I know you're sitting there. His name is Dean, and...can I just tell you about him?"

Bobby was giving him a pitying look, but Sam didn't back down. It wasn't fair, none of it was fair. And maybe the only way to keep Dean from being forgotten was to make sure that Sam wasn't the only one who knew him.

"Cold Oak, South Dakota," Sam said. "What happened there?"

Bobby's face twisted up. "Really, Sam? This your idea of fun?" He finally relented after a long sip of beer. "You died," he admitted. "Stabbed in the back – all the fault of that demon that killed your mother. You know this, son."

"Right. I died. So how am I still standing here?" Sam pressed.

Bobby shook his head. "I've never been one to believe in miracles before, but I'll be damned if I didn't see one that day. Could have sworn you'd left us for good, but just as I'd given mind to salting and burning you, there you were, waking up like nothing had happened."

"And that doesn't strike you as a little bit strange?" Sam said. "Come on, Bobby. Miracles like that don't just happen."

"You got a different explanation?" Bobby shot back.

"Of course I do, because that's not the way I remember it. Yeah, I died there in Cold Oak. But I wasn't saved by a miracle. It was Dean. He made a deal with a crossroads demon to bring me back. Man, you almost killed him when you found out what he'd done. It almost killed me," he added quietly. He looked up to see the blank expression on Bobby’s face. "You don't believe me," he said sadly.

Bobby shrugged helplessly. "What do you want me to say, Sam? I'm no believer in miracles, but at the moment I'm finding it a sight easier to stomach than a mysterious brother who makes deals with demons."

The silence between them was hard and heavy, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock in the next room. Night had finally fallen and the sky was an inky black through the kitchen window, no stars visible from inside the house. The sight of the empty sky made Sam shiver, and he turned away.

"I've got an idea," Bobby said. "Your leg's just about on the mend, isn't it? Well, I got a call from a buddy of mine out in Billings. Standard haunting, nothing fancy, but it looks like a two-man job. It might do you some good to take on a job again. What do you think? We could be ready to go first thing tomorrow."

It felt like giving up. He knew he could still look for Dean out there on the road with Bobby, but it still felt wrong somehow. If his attention was diverted with a run-of-the-mill hunt, maybe something would slip through the cracks and he'd miss an important clue that would give him the key to getting his brother back.

"Say you’re right," Bobby continued. "Say that this Dean is out there somewhere. You think he'd want you to sit around moping instead of doing the job you've been raised to do?"

A sharp crack exploded in the quiet kitchen, and Sam didn't even realize he'd slammed his hand against the counter until he felt the sting in his palm.

"Don't," he said quietly, dangerously. "You don't know him."

Bobby was eyeing him with the same wary restraint Sam had seen him use on stray dogs, and it made Sam feel about three feet tall. He curled in on himself, clutching his elbows tight against his chest. His ribs ached with the strain of holding himself against the deep hole inside him that made him feel like he was on the verge of imploding. God, he couldn't blame Bobby at all. He knew what he sounded like.

And a tiny part of Sam – so small, so insignificant – was starting to wonder if maybe Bobby wasn't right all along. That terrified him more than anything he'd felt since he woke up in this nightmare.

"I can't. I...I have to..." Sam gave up and grabbed his jacket, avoiding Bobby's eyes. "Fresh air," he muttered. "I'll be back later."

The door slammed shut behind him, and one of the dogs howled.

The bar was far from the nicest Sam had ever been in, but it was clean and warm with subdued lighting. He'd come here on occasion with Bobby ( _and Dean_ , his brain supplied), and it was the kind of watering hole that catered to the locals. People gave each other friendly nods and then drank their poison in silence. No one wanted trouble, and anyone who offered it was shown the door quickly.

Sam knew it was useless to start asking questions, describing Dean to all and sundry to see if anyone recognized him. It hadn't worked anywhere else he'd tried it, so why should it here? Instead he nursed his beer in silence, eyes on the bar in front of him. Third one of the night, but who was counting? It wasn't like anyone was around to tease him for it.

The trip to Lawrence had been a complete bust. It seemed that the further back in his past he went, the fewer answers he got. He'd thought that maybe if he could look back far enough he'd eventually hit a point where someone would have some answers. _Someone_ would remember that John Winchester had had a second son. Maybe a neighbor would remember seeing an older boy in addition to the baby.

Maybe it was time for Sam to turn his attention to more recent memories. That worried him deeply, and it was something he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Bobby yet.

The memories of the fight with the ghoul that had caused his injuries were still fuzzy. In fact, his short-term memory seemed to be completely filled with holes. He could remember spending a summer day with Dean as a child, the images as sharp and clear as if they had happened yesterday, but trying to remember what he and Dean had been doing before he'd wound up at Bobby's? Nothing but a muddled mess. Sam had a feeling that his memory problems were somehow linked to Dean's disappearance, but so far he had no idea of how to go about filling in the holes.

A glass slid to a stop in front of him, ice cubes clinking together. Whiskey, if he wasn't mistaken. Sam looked up at the bartender blearily.

"I didn't order this."

The man shrugged and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the other end of the bar.

"Compliments of the lady."

"What? But I don't..."

But the man had disappeared into the back room and Sam was left to contemplate the glass in front of him. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had bought him a drink at a bar. He wasn't in the mood for company tonight, but he couldn't decide how to be polite about signaling his disinterest. Was there a _thanks but no thanks_ hand signal he should be sending?

This was totally the kind of thing Dean would know, and he missed his brother with a sharp, sudden ache. He would even put up with the inevitable mocking he would get at the situation if he could just have him back.

Sam peered at the other end of the bar, but the lights were too dim for him to make out who was sitting there. He slid his finger around the wet rim of the glass and decided to just let it sit there. He didn't ask for it, and if anyone got offended? Fuck them.

"You know, that's top-shelf stuff. It would be impolite not to at least try it."

Sam spun around on the stool and came face to face with a woman. She was short, on eye-level with Sam even though she was standing and he was slumped on a stool, with the solid muscles-edging-into-fat build that indicated someone who did a lot of manual labor. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, her short dark hair shot through with streaks of grey. There was something unfathomably old in her dark eyes, something that Sam couldn't look away from. She regarded him curiously, seemingly not at all impressed with what she was seeing.

Take her out of the long white cardigan and put her in a peasant dress and a babushka, and she wouldn't be out of place on a Soviet-era poster about the glories of the peasant farm worker. Sam couldn't remember if he'd seen her sitting at the bar when he came in, but she had the nondescript appearance of a middle aged woman who had reached the point in her life where she didn't really care what anyone else thought of her. Not attractive, but not particularly unattractive either.

She was absolutely the last person in the room Sam would have given any thought to, either on a romantic basis or in terms of a possible threat. And that made the hunter in him ashamed of letting his guard down, because there was something in her eyes that was telling him that she was more than she seemed to be.

"I'm not much of a drinker," Sam said warily, pushing the glass toward her. "But thank you."

She just stood there and stared at him, and the moment was edging past uncomfortable and into seriously awkward.

"Thank you," he said again, a little more forcibly when she didn't take the hint. "But I'm not really looking for any...company tonight." He was starting to stammer, which was beyond embarrassing, and for the first time in the last miserable month he was glad that Dean wasn't there to laugh at him.

The woman still looked singularly unimpressed, but an amused gleam had finally entered her eyes.

"Well, you Winchesters don't lack for self-confidence. I'll give you that. Some might call it self-delusion, but I'm not your shrink." Sam blinked at her, and she rolled her eyes. "I'm not interested in having sex with you," she stated plainly.

"No!" Sam said. "Of course you're not. I didn't mean...that is..." Oh, God. The embarrassment was going to kill him. What a pathetic way to die. Then her earlier words snapped into focus.

_You Winchesters._

He tried to stop the wild hope that rose up in his heart. After all, she must be talking about his father – they looked to be about the same age. She must have met him at some point years ago while he was visiting Bobby.

"You know who I am," he clarified, and she gave a short nod. "Then...I guess you've met my dad?" He couldn't bring himself to ask about his brother directly, too aware of the sharp disappointment waiting for him on the other side of the question.

"I've met a lot of people," she confirmed. "But I was speaking of Dean."

Sam's hand tightened on the beer bottle in a sudden contraction of muscle, and he wasn't sure how he managed to keep from snapping it. The lights in the bar dimmed as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest, and the rush of adrenaline left him light-headed.

"You know Dean?" he asked, voice cracking. She nodded in confirmation, and he slumped back against the bar. "Oh, God," he breathed. "I can't believe this. Do you know where he is? Do you know what's happened to him? Who are you?"

She pointed at the stool next to Sam, and even the gesture seemed full of detached amusement.

"I don't suppose you'll offer me a seat?"

Sam stumbled to his feet and offered her his hand. She arched her eyebrow at him and took the chair but not his hand. Sam sat back down awkwardly and folded himself into a slouch. Now that they were sitting down he felt twice her size, an ungainly collection of elbows and knees.

"You can call me Gilly," she said. The untouched glass of whiskey sat in front of her now, her plump, calloused fingers curled around the circumference.

" _Call_ you Gilly?" Sam asked. "So that's not your name?"

She looked mildly impressed for the first time that evening. "You're the smart one, aren't you, boy?" she murmured. "And that's the only name you're going to get for now."

"You still didn't answer my question," Sam said. "Who are you? Or maybe I should say _what_ are you?"

"So demanding," she chided. "Another family trait." A hint of ice entered her voice for the first time. "I have better things to do with my time than to be questioned like a common thief, young Sam Winchester."

Sam clenched his teeth in frustration but answered with an apologetic nod. Whoever Gilly was, she clearly had answers for him that she would give out in her own time.

"You said you know Dean," he said. "Do you know who's taken him? Can you bring him back?"

She shook her head and settled herself more comfortably on the stool. The bar was a quiet murmur around them, soft conversations between the locals who would see in them nothing more than a young man and an older woman sitting and talking together. It seemed too ordinary a setting to Sam for something so momentous.

"I can't bring him to you," Gilly said, fixing her eyes on Sam. "You'll have to do that yourself."

"What? How? What are you...?"

She held up her hand, and Sam shut his mouth.

"I can put you on the road," she said, handing Sam a folded piece of paper. She stood and adjusted her sweater. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work."

Sam clutched the paper tightly in his hand, afraid of losing contact with the only source of information he'd found in the last month. _Not found,_ he told himself. _It found me._ He had to force himself to remember that he didn't know anything about this woman and couldn't afford to trust her blindly.

On the other hand, he had very little left to lose.

"Work?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes," she said. "I'm in construction."

Sam frowned and glanced at the dark windows. "Construction. And you're late for work right now? It's eleven at night!"

She shrugged. "Some jobs have their own timetables. I'm on a schedule, and I can't be late." She briefly laid her hand on top of Sam's, and the icy touch of her skin made him shiver.

"I'll see you again."

"Wait," Sam said, standing up. "You can't leave yet. I need you to tell me..."

He stepped back from the stool and bumped hard into someone behind him. He turned to make his apologies, and by the time he turned back around Gilly was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_The vault of the sky is calm and empty above him, a deep blue that stretches from horizon to horizon without a single cloud to mar it. He lies back against the hood of the car and stares upward. The sky falls like an inverted bowl around him, silent and fathomless, and he wonders if he'd be able to touch it if he stretches his arm out far enough. He reaches out his hand, but it dances just beyond the tips of his fingers._

_"You did pretty good work with the paint job there, Sam."_

_The hood wobbles as another body settles down next to him, almost close enough to touch. Sam turns his head and watches Dean stare at the sky, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he squints._

_"Thanks, man," Sam says easily, and Dean turns to smile at him._

_"So," Dean says. "Time for a road trip? Been sitting on your ass long enough, don't you think?"_

_Sam nods eagerly, feeling all of eight years old again and ready to let his big brother take him by the hand and lead him wherever he needs to go._

_"Not so fast, bro." Dean tosses the car keys up in the air and Sam catches them automatically. "You're in the driver's seat this time."_

_The silence around them is almost overwhelming – no cry of bird, no buzz of cicada, no hum of nearby traffic. But if he concentrates hard enough, he can hear Dean breathing next to him. He holds on to the sound, lets it guide his own breaths. He turns the keys over in his hand with a clink and looks at the light glinting off them. It's so comfortable where he lies, so warm, and he feels as if he could stay there forever._

_"I don’t know where to go."_

_Dean hums a laugh. "Sure you do." He leans over and looks at Sam, suddenly serious. "And it's time to hit the road. It won't be easy. I'm sorry."_

_Sam looks back at the deep blue of the sky and stretches out his arm again. The sun falls warm around him._

_"Will you be waiting for me there?"_

_A hand ruffles his hair, and Dean laughs at his scowl. "I'm going with you. I told you, I won't leave you."_

Sam awoke while it was still dark outside, the piece of paper wadded in his hand. He turned on the bedside light and smoothed the paper out, studying it. It contained a single word.

_Dacoma_

As soon as he'd gotten back from the bar, Sam had booted up his laptop and suffered through Bobby's agonizingly slow dialup to do a quick search of his bookmarked supernatural sites. He had thought it might be the name of a demon or demigod, but nothing he found had fit. None of the creatures in Bobby's books used the name. Frustrated, Sam had given up and gone to bed, deciding to start fresh when he was well-rested and slightly more sober.

And suddenly, he knew what the name meant.

Sam stumbled downstairs, cursing at the pile of books he tripped over on the way back to his laptop. He'd pulled up the map last night during one of his searches and almost immediately discarded it, sure that he couldn't be looking for something so mundane. He opened up the page again and stared at the screen, clenching his fingers together to stop them from shaking.

Dacoma, Oklahoma. A few dozen miles south of the Kansas border, population practically nothing. A little town of no significance in the middle of nowhere, a place without the slightest whiff of supernatural activity.

And he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this is where he needed to be.

"Road trip," he murmured, closing the laptop and sneaking upstairs to throw whatever clean clothes he could find into his backpack.

By the time he got back downstairs, Bobby was waiting for him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a resigned look on his face.

"Taking off again?"

Sam dropped his bag and accepted the cup. "Just packing up the car. I was going to wake you before I left – didn't think you’d appreciate getting another note when you got up."

"And the kid finally learns some manners," Bobby snorted. He sighed. "Nothing I can do to get you to change your mind, is there?"

Sam shook his head and took a sip, almost burning the inside of his mouth. He swallowed the bitter taste down.

"I got a lead at the bar last night," he said, handing over the piece of paper.

Bobby read it and raised his eyebrows. "Who gave this to you?"

Sam shrugged, his eyes on his coffee. "A woman, called herself Gilly. She said she knew Dean."

"And you didn't think that she might be lying to you?" Bobby said incredulously. "What if it was a setup? Your daddy made too many enemies back in the day for you not to take this kind of shit seriously, Sam."

"It's not a setup," Sam said firmly. "Look, I never even mentioned Dean at the bar – she was the one to bring him up. And what would be the point? If someone wanted to hurt me, they could have done it right there. Besides..."  
Sam broke off, biting his tongue. He didn't think Bobby would want to hear _...besides, I dreamed of my imaginary brother last night for the first time since I woke up in your house, and it was the best night's sleep I've had in a month._

"Look, Bobby," he said softly. "I have to do this, okay? I have to find him. He would do the same for me."

There was a long pause. Sam could hear the soft spatter of rain just starting to hit the windows. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, and the sky was grey in the east.

"I guess you gotta do what you gotta do," Bobby said finally. "You always were a stubborn son of a bitch. You get that from your father."

 

_"What in the hell is wrong with you, Sam? You keep poking and poking at him just so he'll slap you back down, and then you'll have an excuse to turn into even more of a prick. Don't think I can't see what you're doing!"_

_"Why do you always take his side, Dean? God, you're such a suck-up."_

_A punch lands hard on his shoulder, and he takes a wild swing in return._

_"You two are so much alike, so stubborn you can't see what's right in front of you. No wonder the two of you fight all the time."_

_"What do you know about it, Dean? You've always been his favorite."_

_Dean flinches, and Sam looks away from the pain in his eyes._

_His voice is soft. "Is that what you really think, Sammy?"_

 

He realized that Bobby had been waiting for a reply and swallowed hard. "Yeah," he said over the lump in his throat. "We're a lot alike."

Without another word, Bobby turned to the cupboard and pulled out a travel mug and several bagels. He looked at Sam and shrugged.

"If you're going, let's get you fixed up right. No use in setting out without caffeine."

"Thanks," Sam whispered. He settled his bag on his shoulder and took the fresh mug of coffee from Bobby, then let himself be pulled into a brief, awkward hug.

"Take care of yourself, boy," Bobby sad, his voice muffled by Sa's overshirt. "And make sure you call this time, you jackass. Wild goose chase or not, you're just about the only family I've got."

Sam hugged him back hard, feeling a sharp pang of guilt. It would be so easy to give in, to accompany Bobby on his hunt and fall back into the life he knew. He owed it to Bobby, after the way the older man had looked after him. But he simply couldn't do it. He had no idea what was facing him in Dacoma, whether or not he'd be able to get Dean back, but he knew he had to try.

"I promise," Sam said.

He reached Dacoma by early evening. It was a tiny place, blink and you miss it, surrounded by acres of farmland. The plowed fields were green in the late spring heat, and Sam pulled off the side of the road to stretch his legs and breathe the fresh air.

He'd given Bobby a call from the road, and the action partially eased his guilt for the way he'd pretty much bolted from the house earlier that morning. Bobby was clearly still unimpressed with the whole escapade, but he'd held his tongue and told Sam to call him once he had news.

It was hard to believe that he'd find anything here. Sam didn't know for sure if he retained any of what Dean called his "freaky mojo", but either way he wasn't getting much of an impression from the place – no gut feeling, no twitchiness, no sudden visions. He fingered Gilly's piece of paper in his pocket like a talisman.

_This is the place. It has to be._

Sam stared out at the horizon, listening to the call of birdsong. He'd driven through the morning storm and come out to the other side to find the sky washed empty and clean. The lack of trees or tall buildings made the sky look even bigger than usual.

The small diner in the center of town was mostly empty when he pulled up in front of it. He wasn't very hungry, but it was either the diner or fast food, and he wanted somewhere he could sit down and maybe ask a few questions.

His waitress was friendly enough, recommending the turkey club and chatting with him about the weather. He asked a few leading questions about any potential weirdness about the place – any strange weather patterns recently? any unusual visitors over the past month? anyone complaining about cold spots? – but she got the fixed smile on her face that told Sam he'd edged into crazy territory. He backed off, unwilling to antagonize anyone until he could figure what was going on and why he was here.

 

_"Hey, you gonna eat that?"_

_"Yes, and get your hands out of my plate. Jesus, Dean. Just order something else if you're still hungry."_

_Dean shrugs and picks at his napkin. There are bags under his eyes, his face puffy from too much stress, too much alcohol and too little sleep. They're both on the ragged edge these days, but Dean is scaring him._

_"Nah, I'm not really hungry. Just...restless, you know? Are you finished eating yet? We should probably be moving on."_

_He knows better than to ask Dean how he's feeling. He knows that asking Dean to take a break and get some rest is the fastest way to get him to shut down entirely. He knows that he can't even look like he's feeling anything close to pity for his brother._

_So he just pushes his plate across the table and silently encourages Dean to sit quietly and eat the fries. Anything to keep them both from rushing headlong into destruction, if only for five minutes._

 

Sam blinked and saw an older man in a nearby booth staring at him – one of the local farmers, if the clothes were anything to go by. He realized he'd completely zoned out with his sandwich still in his hand and halfway to his mouth – a sandwich which was in the process of dripping fillings all over his plate. He lowered his hand and offered an embarrassed smile, getting a raised eyebrow and a shrug from the farmer in reply.

He couldn't place the memory, and he wasn't sure what had triggered it. It seemed to be something that had happened fairly recently, but he couldn't remember where they'd been or what they'd been hunting. He couldn't remember why Dean had looked so depressed, and that bothered him more than anything.

Appetite completely lost, Sam paid his bill and did a quick walk through the town.

It didn't take long – there wasn't much town – and within forty-five minutes he was sitting in the car again staring through the windshield while he drove slowly out of what passed for downtown.

He stopped by the side of the road – the same place he'd stopped the first time, incidentally. Night had fallen, the darkness smudging the harsh angles of the young corn growing in the field next to him, and he still had no clear idea of why he was here and what he was supposed to be doing. He missed having his brother to bounce ideas off of – and, as usual, the thought of Dean made the empty place in his chest ache.

Sam took a flashlight from the trunk and wandered slowly down the side of the road away from the car – just strolling on the grass, really, keeping well clear of the few vehicles that were still out and about. His leg ached a bit as he walked, but at least it had healed well enough that he'd been able to abandon the cane back at Bobby's.

If anyone had asked, Sam would have told them that he was waiting for inspiration to strike. Waiting for _something_ to strike.

He'd take lightning, at this point.

"Son? You need some help?"

Sam whirled around and found the farmer from the diner standing behind him. He stood almost as tall as Sam, thickly built, with a shock of white hair that made his tan seem even more pronounced. He had an open, friendly face, hands shoved nonthreateningly in his pockets. Sam caught sight of a battered pickup parked by the side of the road behind the Impala.

"Huh?"

The man hooked his thumb at the vehicles behind him. "I saw you pulled off by the side, wondered if you were in some kind of trouble. You need me to call a tow for you?"

Sam laughed bitterly. Yeah, he was in trouble. Standing by the side of the road in fucking rural Oklahoma with no plan and no clue that he was on the right path other than the note shoved in his pocket was trouble. And that damned note probably meant else entirely than what he'd thought, but his brain was already in knots trying to parse the riddle.

"I'm all right, thanks." His voice cracked. "Just stretching my legs. I've been in the car all day."

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, then held out his hand. "Mortimer Potter. Folks call me Mort. I saw you over at Maria's place having dinner. You were asking some mighty strange questions."

Sam took the offered hand and shook it, then fell back a couple of paces. He shrugged.

"It's for a book I'm writing. Paranormal activity in local communities, stuff like that."

It was one of the stupider lies he could have told, but he was honestly too tired to put any effort into coming up with a good excuse. Mort studied him for a long moment.

"Well. I don't normally put much faith in nonsense like that, but...you were asking questions about things that might have happened in the last few weeks – things out of the ordinary, if you take my meaning."

It was hard to quell the sudden burst of hope. He'd spent too much time hoping these past few weeks and been disappointed every time.

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "Why? Have you heard or seen anything?"

Mort scratched his chin and contemplated the night sky. "Can't say as I know anything for certain. The old mind's working on a slower track these days. You're still a kid – you'll understand when you get to be my age."

"Please." Sam hoped he didn’t sound too eager, but he was willing to pick up any scraps of information he could - even if it turned out to be weather balloon sightings. "Any information you can give me will be helpful."

Mort eyed him cautiously and finally shrugged. "What the hell. Nothing good on TV tonight anyway." He pointed back down the road behind Sam. "Why don't you follow me to my place? It'll be more comfortable than standing around next to my corn field, and I've got a bottle of whiskey I've been meaning to open. You got a name, son?"

"Sam. Winchester." He held his hand out again for Mort to shake. "Sorry. And...yeah, I'd like that, if you don't mind. I'm trying to...you know...get this research done as quickly as possible."

"Nice to meet you, Sam." Mort tightened his grip on Sam's hand and fixed him with a level look. "I got three big dogs, a rifle, and nothing worth stealing. We clear?"

Sam cracked a smile. "Yeah, we're clear."

Mort's face eased into a grin. "Good to know. The turnoff is about a quarter mile down the road on the right. It's easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for, so stick close behind me and we'll see if we can't continue this in a bit of comfort."

Mort's house sat a few hundred yards from the road. The long driveway was unpaved but well-maintained, with no ruts or holes. Empty fields stretched to either side of the lane, completely dark in the absence of streetlights. The stars shone overhead, as bright as Sam had ever seen them. 

Mort's pickup slowed to a stop in front of him with a squeal of brakes. A small, light-colored house sat at the end of the drive, the bulk of a small barn silhouetted behind it. The house was weather-beaten but in good condition, the cheery paint peeling in places. The porch was full of every kind of farm-related debris Sam could think of, all organized into neat piles: pieces of equipment seemingly in need of repair, mud-covered boots, spools of wire and heavy cord.

The front door of the pickup squeaked as Mort stepped out and slammed the door. Sam followed more slowly, freezing in place at the loud baying that arose as soon as Mort started to cross the yard.

A gigantic female mastiff bounded into view and groveled playfully at Mort's feet, attempting to wrestle with his boots. He slapped her flank and pulled gently at her ears.

"Nice to see you too, sweetheart. Where are the boys?"

Two young puppies followed the larger dog into the yard, all floppy ears and oversized paws. All three animals trotted over to check Sam out, and he stood very still as the large dog sniffed around him. She seemed to come to a decision after a moment's contemplation and jumped on Sam, huge paws landing on his shoulders. Sam flinched when a long, wet tongue attached itself to his face.

"Hey, Lucy! Down! Get down, girl!"

The dog was hauled down by its collar by Mort, who somehow managed to perform the feat one-handed while cradling one of the puppies in the other. He put the puppy down and shooed the larger dog off while Sam laughed and wiped his face.

"Three big dogs, huh?"

Mort grinned. "Lucy’s big enough, and those other two will catch up sooner than you think. I'm telling you, she's a dangerous creature. She hasn't actually licked anyone to death yet, but it's not for lack of trying."

The inside of Mort's house was as cozy as the outside. The front room was small, with room only for the small couch and recliner on one wall with the TV opposite. Magazines and old TV Guides were piled in the corners. An old blanket hung across the back of the couch. The walls were almost bare, a few landscape portraits on the walls that Sam suspected came packaged with the frames. The atmosphere was of someone who was used to keeping bachelor's quarters and liked it. Sam was willing to bet top dollar that Mort was single.

Mort offered Sam the couch – "Might be easier on your back. That recliner has seen better days," – and retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet below the TV. He poured a healthy glass for Sam and a second for himself before settling into the creaky recliner with a sigh.

"So, you're writing a book. Paranormal something or other, you said?" Mort raised his eyebrows. "Any particular reason you're checking out our little town? We’re not exactly known for our haunted houses around here."

Sam shrugged and took a sip. The whiskey warmed him on the way down, although he suspected that Dean would be better able to appreciate it.

"I grew up in this part of the country," he answered. "You wouldn't believe the weird shit that goes on in small towns. And the quieter they are, the freakier they can be."

He stopped, afraid he might have offended Mort, but the older man just laughed. "I grew up here, son, and I will testify that that is the God's honest truth. So, you an Oklahoma boy?"

"Kansas...sort of. We moved around a lot."

Mort waved his hand magnanimously. "Close enough, I guess. I suppose every town has its stories. You hear about the corner of the cemetery no one walks through after nightfall, or the place in the churchyard where the grass doesn't grow. Supposed to be a suicide buried there. Most of it's just talk – folks need conversation to fill up the empty corners of their lives. There's not a lot else going on here."

"Yeah?" Sam took another swallow of the alcohol. "What do you do?"

Mort shrugged. "Right now, I’m waiting for the harvest to come in. That's pretty much my job. I've taken up some carpentry in my spare time – got a corner of the barn all set up as a workshop, and it's actually pretty nice, if I do say so myself. I've always been interested in building things. I think I'll learn some masonry next. There are some structural repairs to be made around the place, and I may be getting old but my body's not ready to give out on me yet. Better to stay active, I always say. Too much time sitting around in the company of your own thoughts ain't healthy."

"I hear you," Sam muttered.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the hum of the cicadas acting as white noise. Sam could hear a snuffling noise near the front door followed by a thud, and he could picture Lucy sniffing around the porch and then curling up with her puppies just outside. The temperature was dropping, the late spring humidity still low enough that it got cool at night. In another few months the heat would be a thick, wet blanket, even at night.

"You've been around, son. I'm sure you've got some stories you could tell."

Sam roused himself and focused on Mort. "How do you know that?"

Mort eyed him keenly. "You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t know how to settle down. So tell me about your travels. You spend all your time looking for ghosts and monsters?"

And without even planning to, Sam found himself telling Mort stories of their life on the road. Nothing serious – nothing about demons, or destinies, or apocalypses. He told about the time a wendigo completely destroyed his bag of clothes, leaving him to traipse through the woods in his underwear. He told about the college girls who were convinced their apartment was haunted – haunted, it turned out, by the very human peeping tom of a maintenance man. He relayed the story of how they saved a young girl from a shapeshifter that had disguised itself as her pet cat.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," Sam confessed with a laugh. The first two glasses of whiskey had gone down smooth, and the night felt as warm and fluid as if he was floating in a bathtub.

"And I don't know that I believe the half of it," Mort shot back, leaning across to clink his glass against Sam's. "But you tell a hell of a story, and I'm grateful for the entertainment."

"Well, most of the time it's funnier after the fact," Sam said.

Mort resettled himself into the recliner and gave Sam a curious look. "I couldn't help but notice you used the word _we_ quite a bit. You traveling with anyone?"

The smile faded from Sam's face, and the words stuck in his throat. He had to swallow hard around them.

"My brother," he said softly.

"But not anymore? You two have a falling out?"

Sam shook his head. "He's...he's missing. I'm trying to find him."

Mort nodded. "And now we get to the truth of it," he said quietly. Sam looked up in surprise, but Mort just shook his head. "That story about the book was the biggest line of bullshit I've heard all week, and I've heard more than my share of crap. You got the look of a man running from something. I was thinking maybe problems with your girl, money troubles...but a brother? Well, that makes even more sense. No one can put that haunted look on your face quite like family."

"I got a lead that brought me here," Sam admitted. "But so far I haven't been able to find anything."

The whiskey probably wasn't the best idea Sam had ever had, but it felt so nice to take the edge off, to talk about his brother like he was an actual, real person without having to put up with Bobby's pitying looks.

"How long's he been gone?" Mort asked.

"About a month, I guess. We were hunting together and I got hurt, and...I just couldn’t find him afterward."

Mort gave him a sympathetic look. "This hunting you boys do sounds like a pretty dangerous business. Any chance he...?"

"No!" Sam lowered his voice and stared at his almost empty glass. The whiskey at the bottom shone in the lamplight as he tilted the glass. "No," he said firmly. "He's not dead."

"Hmmm," Mort said. "That's why you were asking about things happening here in the last month. I'm sorry, boy. I wish I had more to tell you. We've had a couple of strange visitors recently. Some of them stopped by the farm a few weeks back, poking around. Lucy didn't much like them, and she likes everybody. You think one of them might have been your brother? Or involved in his disappearance?"

"I don't know," Sam said dully. "At this point, I'll take whatever you can give me."

Mort hummed thoughtfully. "What does he look like? This is a mighty small town, and I should know if I've seen him around. You two look much alike?"

Sam took another sip and pondered the glass. "Not really, I guess," he said with a small laugh. It came out sounding like a sob. "He's, umm. He's a few inches shorter than me. Short hair – maybe a little bit lighter than mine? Hazel-ish eyes, I guess. He..."

And he broke off there, because how could be possibly describe the wonderfully infuriating _Deanness_ of his brother in words that would make someone remember if they'd seen him before? Normally he'd just run out to the car and grab one of the fake IDs to show a picture, but Dean had disappeared so entirely from the universe that the only trace of him remaining was in Sam's memories. How to describe the way he walked, all confident swagger that drew the eye? Or how you'd have to look carefully to notice the tight, defensive set of his shoulders, the way he was always prepared for sudden violence? What about the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he told a filthy joke, or the way his mouth always fell open a bit whenever he caught sight of a pretty girl in a bar? Sam knew his brother was good looking, but what would that vague description mean to someone like Mort? Could he possibly describe what it was about Dean's face that made him look about five years old when Sam caught him at a vulnerable moment?

He was just _Dean_ , and Sam had no better way to describe him.

"I had a brother once," Mort said softly. He was looking across the room at the silent television, and Sam took the opportunity to discreetly wipe at his eyes. "We haven’t talked in...well, it must be thirty years or so. I can't even remember what we were fighting about in the first place – something stupid, I have no doubt, and I'm sure plenty of blame can be laid on both sides. You just get angry and stop talking, and pretty soon it becomes easier to keep the silence than to start up again. You start to forget the good things and remember only the hurts. If I was a braver man, less set in my ways, I'd look him up again. You ever have any regrets?"

Sam paused, took a minute to hold back the quick and easy denial. "Yes," he said finally. "There's so much I wish I could go back and do over."

Mort looked over at Sam with a glint in his eyes. "Guilt's an awful hard thing to overcome, Sam. It ain't easy to find something that's been lost. How badly do you want your Dean back?"

Sam froze. A bolt of ice shot up his spine followed by a rush of goose bumps, and the temporary warmth the whiskey had given him vanished instantly.

"Pretty damn badly," he told Mort softly, looking him right in the eye. "Which you already knew. But you've known that all along, right?"

"Why do you say that, son?" Mort looked no more than mildly curious, and Sam smiled without showing any teeth.

"Because I never told you Dean's name."

A long moment passed, and Sam felt all of his muscles clench in preparation for swinging into action. Mort smiled, and it was just as friendly and open as his first smile. This time, however, there was a shrewd look in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Oh, Sam. You've been telling me all night. Just not out loud."

"What do you know?"

It came out as a harsh growl, but Mort didn't look particularly bothered by Sam's tone. He stood up from the creaky recliner to lean against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest but making no other threatening moves.

"Samuel,” he mused. "It's a powerful name, and you were given it for a reason. Tell me, Samuel, has God heard you?"

Sam placed his glass carefully on the ground and stood up, mirroring Mort's pose.

"I don't know what you’re talking about," he said evenly. "I just want to know what you know about Dean."

"No, I don't suppose you do," Mort murmured. "Not yet, at least." He blinked and seemed to focus fully on Sam's face for the first time. "Relax, son," he said. "I didn't take your brother from you. And before you ask..." he held up a hand as soon as Sam opened his mouth, "...I can't bring him back to you. But maybe I can set you on the right path for the rest of your journey. Give you a roadmap, as it were."

"Why should I believe you?"

It was probably too damn late to ask a question like that, Sam knew. He was beyond desperate and would end up following any crumbs that were laid out for him. But he had to put in a token resistance, if only for the sake of appearance.

"I suppose you can't," Mort said thoughtfully. "But then again, you Winchester boys have the oddest habit of placing your trust in exactly the wrong sorts of people, and somehow you always manage to pull through."

Mort walked over to the cabinet below the TV and squatted down to dig around in it for a minute. He stood back up holding something in his cupped hand and walked over to Sam, wordlessly holding his hand out. After a moment's hesitation, Sam put out his hand. He gasped and took a step back, head hitting the wall, when he saw what Mort had dropped into his palm.

Dean's amulet.

If could have been a trick. It could have been a copy. But Sam knew, suddenly and immediately, that it wasn't. The cord was frayed in exactly the same place as Dean's cord. There was a chip on one of the horns where Dean had damaged it after getting slammed to the ground by a werewolf. The back of it was worn smooth in the same place where Dean rubbed his thumb against it when he was feeling particularly stressed.

The tears came again, and this time Sam was helpless to stop them.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I already told you," Mort said. "I'm a farmer, waiting for the harvest. I like to build things."

There was something new in Mort's eyes, something older than old and strangely familiar, and Sam shuddered as he tried to remember where he'd seen it before.

"Are you going to tell me where to go next?"

Mort nodded. "I am. But not until you get some sleep. It's not time yet."

"What? Why can't you tell me now? If I leave now, then I can..."

Mort pushed him gently and inexorably back onto the sofa, laying his hand on Sam's head. It was warm and heavy, and Sam closed his eyes as the fatigue he'd been fighting came rushing back in on a smooth, whiskey-borne wave. He vaguely sensed Mort covering him with the blanket that hung from the back of the sofa, and then nothing.

Sam awoke with the rising sun shining directly in his eyes, and he turned his head with a curse. His neck was stiff and sore, and his back was screaming in agony. He tried to stretch out his legs and groaned when he kicked something before he could unfold himself. Carefully he sat up and looked around, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

He was in the front seat of the Impala, and the early morning sun shimmered off the corn fields around him.

Sam gingerly opened the door and stepped out, almost tripping over his own feet. His head felt too large for his body and burned with the dull ache that came from drinking too much the night before. He was still in Mort's front yard, and he wondered vaguely why the old man had moved him out to the car instead of leaving him on the couch.

Then he blinked and took a closer look at the house.

The paint that had been peeling the night before had all but vanished, leaving bare boards stained with just a hint of color that had been weathered off long ago. The stairs leading up to the porch were cracked and half rotten, and trash covered the porch itself instead of the neat collection of equipment and supplies he'd expected to see. The front door hung half open, the screen so ripped that only scraps of netting still clung to the frame. The front yard was filled with weeds and potholes, with no overly friendly dogs lurking around.

This was a house abandoned years ago to the elements. A chill ran up the back of Sam's neck, and he quickly retrieved a gun from the car and checked to make sure it was loaded with silver bullets before he gingerly made his way to the rotted stairs. They almost collapsed under his weight, but he made it safely with a jump onto a porch that was only dubiously sturdier than the stairs had been.

Sam peered cautiously through the open door before stepping through it, careful to keep his back to the wall. He needn't have bothered – the place had clearly been deserted for a long time. There was no furniture in the front room, only bits of trash and dried leaves littering the bare floor. A quick glance in the kitchen showed him that the appliances and pipes had long ago been stripped away.

He didn't bother to check the rest of the abandoned house. No one had lived here in a very long time. Whoever or whatever Mortimer Potter was, he wasn't here anymore.

But he'd left a message behind.

Sam stared at the graffiti sprayed across the wall where the TV had been, eyes focusing on one set of words.

_Pilot Knob_

He didn't know how, but he knew for certain that those words were meant for him. He'd been given the next clue to find his brother, and he would follow it.

Maybe a saner person would take step back and look at everything logically, maybe decide that the previous night had been a delusion resulting from grief, loneliness and too much alcohol.

But Sam reached up and tightened his fingers around the amulet that hung from his neck and decided that being sane was overrated.


	4. Chapter 4

_The sky is completely overcast; thick, featureless clouds blot out the sun. He knows it's up there somewhere, but there is absolutely no sign of its heat. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the threat of rain hangs heavy in the air._

_"It just gets worse before it gets better, doesn't it? Seems like that's the story of our lives."_

_Dean settles down on the ground next to Sam, propping his boots against the thick grass._

_Sam feels a sudden rush of relief, thick and sweet, although he can't figure out why. He turns his head into his brother's shoulder, closing his eyes for a long moment. Dean slings an arm around his shoulders and holds him for a minute, and then they both pull back before either one can accuse the other of being a girl._

_"I'm tired," Sam murmurs._

_"I know, Sammy. It's almost over, though. For better or for worse, it's almost over."_

_"I thought you told me it was never over for us?"_

_Dean shrugs. "Maybe. I don't really know anything for sure anymore."_

_Blood drips onto the grass between them, and Sam's eyes follow the trail up to Dean's nose._

_"Hey," he says uneasily. "You're hurt."_

_"Am I?" Dean looks unconcerned even as more blood runs from his nose and fresh cuts and bruises appear on his face. "I can't feel anything. I think that's actually been a problem for a while now."_

_Sam stares helplessly as more cuts open on his brother's face. He feels a sting and looks down to see his own knuckles split open._

_"Oh, God," he breathes._

_Dean catches his face firmly between his hands and forces Sam to look him in the eye._

_"Don't look at it," he says fiercely. "It's not your fault. Do you hear me? It's not your fault. You have to remember that. I'm sorry, Sam. God, I'm so sorry that you have to go through this."_

_Thunder growls in the gunmetal grey of the atmosphere, and Sam feels the first drops of rain hit his face._

_"What should I do now?"_

_"What you have to do," Dean says. "It's time to go into the woods. But I'm not going to leave you. Remember that."_

"I wasn’t able to dig up much," Bobby said. "Probably the biggest name I could find is Pilot Knob, Missouri. But the name shows up in several different states, so I’m not sure what to tell you."

Sam cradled the phone against his shoulder and reached over to the glove compartment to grab a piece of paper and pen. There was very little traffic on these back roads, even at this hour of the afternoon, but he kept himself pulled well off the side of the road just in case. The fields were green around him and the sky was still bright, but the air smelled of rain. The catnap he'd taken in the backseat after lunch seemed to have helped clear his head.

"Okay, tell me about the Missouri one. Anything special about it?" Besides the fact that Dean would have spent a solid half hour making fun of the name. Maybe an hour, if there was nothing good on the radio.

He heard Bobby sigh over the line. "Not particularly," he admitted. "There's a Civil War memorial around there – apparently there was a big battle there around 1864. It's not a heavily populated area. There are legends of a murdered woman who haunts the battlefield, but most of the stories about her seem to have died off in the middle of the twentieth century. It looks like a pretty quiet place, to be honest – just the battlefield, some old mining stuff, and lots of trees."

_It's time to go into the woods._

"Trees?" His voice caught on the word, and he had to clear his throat. "What was that about trees?"

He could hear shuffling papers on the other end of the line before Bobby replied. "The whole area is part of a state park system – kind of mountainous, forests, you name it. Oh, there was one story about a couple of campers who were killed back in the 70s by Bigfoot, but most sources indicate they were pretty drunk, so take that one with a grain of salt."

"That's it," Sam said quietly. "That's where I have to go."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Sam braced himself for more questions. But Bobby just sighed quietly and said, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Bobby, I know you don't believe me, but..."

"Sam." Bobby took a long moment, and they just breathed together over the phone. "I may not completely understand, but I know you've got to do this. I'm just worried about you, boy. You're sounding...well, a bit strung out. You ever think about coming back here for a while to rest up before you start looking again?"

Sam twisted the cord around his neck, fingering the amulet. "I can't do that."

"No," Bobby said. "I don't suppose you can. Just know that you can always come back if you run into trouble."

Sam swallowed hard. "Thanks, Bobby. I can't even tell you how much I appreciate that."

The visitor's center sat in the middle of a clearing surrounded by a small parking lot. The lot was mostly empty when Sam pulled in, and he suspected that the few cars there probably belonged to the employees. Bright white clouds sped across the morning sky, caught in a stiffening breeze. Sam shivered.

The inside of the small building was mostly given over to large displays advertising local attractions – battlefield tours, antique shops, a few diners. Civil War photographs and framed topographic maps covered every inch of wall space. Racks of pamphlets and maps hung along one wall next to a slide-door refrigerator filled with bottled water and sodas.

The front desk sat opposite, and Sam turned to it just as the girl sitting behind the desk looked up from the book she was reading, removed her ear buds and smiled at him.

"Hi," she said easily. "Can I help you find something?"

Her nametag said _Thana_ , with _Pilot Knob Visitor's Center_ below it in smaller type. She was tiny, no more than five feet and slim in build, and she made Sam feel awkward and ungainly and eighteen feet tall by comparison. The uniform shirt she was wearing was shockingly white against the darkness of her skin, and she had the largest eyes Sam had ever seen outside of an anime character. She was beautiful, and he had no doubt that Dean would be all over her except for the fact that she looked all of twelve years old.

"I'm not sure," he said hesitantly, then gave a self-deprecating laugh. He'd left normal about five exits back, so he wasn't sure why he cared what this girl thought about him. "To be honest, I have no clue. I'm looking for someone, and I was led to believe that I could find information about him here."

Thana frowned, brows drawing a crease in her smooth forehead.

"Well, if you want information, this is the place for it." She reached below the counter and brought out a phone book that had _Iron County Telephone Directory_ printed across the front. "Sorry about the low-tech, but our network's down at the moment. The guy you're looking for...is he a resident here?"

Sam shook his head. "To be honest with you, I don't really know if you'll be able to help me because I don't know myself what I'm looking for. I'll know it when I see it." He glanced around the room. "Umm...I guess I can get some maps, and some water. And if you could tell me how to access the state parks, I'd appreciate it."

Thana gave him a quick look up and down, and her eyes softened. "Sure, we can take care of that. Grab whatever you need and I'll ring you up here. I've got some printouts of the park entrances with hours of operation. I'll show you how to get wherever you want to go."

The clock on the wall was just hitting noon by the time Thana was handing him back his credit card and a plastic bag filled with maps and his bottled water.

"Look," she said, pulling the bag back across the counter before he could take it. "I'm off now and I was about to go grab some lunch. You want to come with me? Maybe you can tell me more about the person you're looking for, and I'll see if there's anything I can do to help you out."

Sam hesitated. A large part of him wanted to immediately drive to the nearest national park and just start walking into the forest, but the rational side of his brain informed him that that was in no way a good idea. Besides, it was entirely possible that this girl could be the one to let him know where he should go next. Maybe she wasn't as human as she looked.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked bluntly.

She gave him an unblinking stare. "Sam Perkins," she said, waiting a beat while he gave her a challenging look. She grinned at him. "At least, that was the name on your credit card. Are you telling me it's actually something else, Mr. Perkins?"

He smiled sheepishly and deflated slightly. "Just call me Sam. And thank you – I'd love to have lunch with you."

Her smile was infectious. "Excellent. Just let me pack up my stuff." She saw him inspecting the textbooks she was shoving into her messenger bag and held one out for him to look at. "Calc test tomorrow. I'm so sick of studying it's not even funny."

"High school?" he asked hesitantly.

"Ugh, I knew you were going to say that," she groaned. "College, for the record. I'm a junior."

"Sorry," Sam chuckled.

Thana shrugged and ducked out from behind the counter. She started to walk toward the front door, then paused and wheeled back around on Sam, poking his chest with a small finger.

"Also for the record, this is not a date, okay?"

Sam held up his hands. "It's okay, I didn't think it was. I'm not hitting on you, I promise."

She let out a clear, bell-like laugh. "Good. You're cute and all, but I don't think my girlfriend would approve."

The coffee shop Thana led him to was only about a ten minutes' walk away, so Sam left his car in the visitor's center parking lot and strolled down the street next to her. The breeze had picked up, blowing Sam's long hair into his eyes every time he turned his head and making Thana laugh at him.

The coffee shop contained a small deli counter with a surprisingly extensive assortment of soups, salads and sandwiches. About half of the tables were already occupied. Thana picked a large table in front of the window while Sam settled in to enjoy the best cup of coffee he'd had in weeks. She smiled at the look on his face.

"That good, huh? You must have been on the road a while. I know a connoisseur of gas station coffee when I see one."

He laughed at that, and she followed up with a story about a road trip to Austin she'd taken a few months back. Sam smiled and listened, interjecting questions and comments where appropriate. It was soothing, somehow, just sitting there with her. It reminded him of being in college, sitting in a caf&eacute with a pretty girl and her full backpack of books...

...and he wondered, suddenly, about those years at college when he'd been apart from Dean. Why hadn't he felt the same awful loss then that he felt now?

Sam wasn't an idiot – he knew that his relationship with Dean had edged past "a bit codependent" and entered "kind of unhealthy" territory a few years back. He knew they were simultaneously each other's biggest strength and greatest weakness. Dean had told him a while ago that it scared him, what he was willing to do to keep his family safe. And while he had understood what Dean meant at the time, it wasn't until years later – long after their father had died – that Sam really got what Dean had meant on a gut level.

He had become a total mess during those two awful periods when he had thought he'd lost Dean for good – first those empty months the Trickster had inflicted on him after Dean's "death" by gunshot, and then the awful time after he'd truly lost Dean to Lilith and her Hellhounds. He'd become obsessed and single-minded and downright scary, pulling away from Bobby and going into hardcore vigilante mode faster than he would have thought possible.

He'd thought for so long that Dean had been the one to pull him back into the hunting lifestyle, and that it was Sam's job to inject their lives with some kind of normalcy. But he realized that he'd had everything backward – without Dean, he obtained a level of obsession that his father would have envied. He needed Dean to keep him human.

He wondered if his brother would say the same about him.

The only explanation he could think of for why being apart from Dean had been so easy and freeing during college was that, even while he was in school and even when he kind of hated his family and the life they led, he knew Dean was still out there somewhere. It was unfathomable at the time that anything would be able to take down Dean and their father when they were teamed up together, and so he simply didn't worry. He knew they were okay. But when Dean had died, Sam had just lost it. He had become someone he hadn't thought himself capable of becoming. The absence of Dean had been a permanent ache he couldn't smooth away.

He wondered suddenly what that meant, in terms of how he'd been acting the last month. Was it possible Dean had really been dead this entire time?

 _No_ , he thought fiercely. _He's okay and I’m going to find him._ He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the way his fingernails bit into the palms of his hands. When he opened his eyes, Thana was looking at him with a worried expression.

"You okay?" she asked. "You kind of disappeared there for a moment."

Sam scrubbed his dry face with his hands. "Yeah," he said shakily. "Sorry about that."

"Hey, it's none of my business," she said, playing with her fork. "But that guy you're looking for...boyfriend?"

"Brother." Sam gave the automatic correction, not even surprised at the assumption anymore.

"Yeah, I've got one of those," Thana said. "Actually, I've got a couple of those, plus a few sisters. Big family," she added at Sam's curious look. "Who I love dearly, don't get me wrong, but sweet Lord am I happy to be out of the house these days. How about you – where's the rest of your family?"

He thought of Bobby briefly, then shook his head. It wasn't quite the same. "Dean's pretty much it," he told her.

She covered his hand with hers and gave it a quick squeeze, eyes full of sympathy. "And you think he's here?"

"I think this is where I need to look for him," he said. "Any strange guys come through town in the last month?" The question felt automatic, and he didn't really expect to get a helpful answer. Still, he asked it anyway. He couldn't not.

Thana laughed. "You saw the Civil War memorial, right? Between the military buffs and the conspiracy theorists and the historical re-enactors, we get more strange guys than you can shake a stick at."

 

_"Okay, Sam. Time for a shift change. Your turn, buttercup."_

_Dean hauls himself out of the waist-deep grave and hands the shovel to Sam, taking the flashlight from him in return. There's only room for one of them at a time, which means the job takes twice as long. It's not exactly helping Sam's foul mood._

_"This sucks. Our lives suck."_

_"What are you talking about? Our lives are awesome."_

_Sam thunks the shovel down into the loose dirt and rips off his overshirt before continuing. Two minutes in action and he’s already sweating like a pig. Goddamn humidity._

_"We're spending a Saturday night at the local cemetery digging up a corpse which, going by the date of death, is probably still delightfully juicy. Tell me what’s so awesome about that, Dean."_

_Dean pauses to scratch his neck thoughtfully, and Sam kind of wants to hit him on general principles._

_"We could be garbage collectors."_

_"We'd smell better if we were."_

_"We could be prison guards."_

_"At least I'd get to carry a taser."_

_"We could be kindergarten teachers."_

_A long pause._

_"That...yeah. That would genuinely suck worse."_

_"We could work at the world's most depressing nursing home." Dean is warming up to it now. "We could be those people who dress up and sell turkey legs at Renaissance Festivals. Hey, we could be Civil War re-enactors!"_

_Sam is laughing full out now, and they have to stifle themselves into semi-quiet giggles before they catch the attention of the roaming security guard._

 

"And you did it again," Thana said kindly. Sam blinked at her.

"Sorry. Again."

"You say that a lot. You got a lot to be sorry for, Sam?"

He didn't know how to answer that, so he shrugged and studied his empty mug. "I guess you can say I deserve everything I’ve gotten."

"And who are you to say what you deserve?"

He looked up at Thana. She was studying him calmly, hands folded in front of her and eyebrows raised. She shrugged at his look.

"What? I'm just saying that humans in general are spectacularly bad judges of what they actually deserve."

"Uh huh." Sam mirrored her pose across the table. "I took freshman psych too, once upon a time." His tone was more snide than he'd planned, but once it was out of his mouth he couldn't take it back.

"Ooh," she chided, although her tone was still friendly. "Defense mechanism kicking in!"

Sam felt like a massive heel. He opened his mouth to apologize – again – but she pointed her finger at him.

"Don't even say it. I'm starting to think it's the only word you know. You say a word too often, it loses its meaning." She smiled to lighten the mood. "Like, the word _chair_. That ever happen to you? You read it over and over in a sentence and it stops meaning something and just looks weird and alien on the page. Like... _chair_. Who ever thought up that strange combination of letters?"

Sam couldn't help the short laugh that bubbled up, and she gave him an answering chuckle.

"That's better. Now, tell me what you know about your brother and let me see if I can do anything to help you. After all, the pride of the Pilot Knob Visitor's Center is at stake."

Sam sketched out the most normal, least supernatural sounding story he could think of. He told her that he and Dean had been on a hunting trip together, that somehow he'd gotten hurt and woken up a month ago recuperating at a friend's house. That his memory of the event was patchy in places, that Dean was gone, and that every clue he'd come across had led him right here. And that he wasn't going to stop searching until he found his brother.

He didn't fill her in on the fact that no one who knew Dean seemed to remember that he had ever existed.

"Wow, okay. That's some story." Thana took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She gave Sam a measured look. "No offense, but...do you know if he _wants_ to be found?"

Sam clenched his hands into fists under the table and tried to answer calmly. "What does that mean?"

She held her hands up. "Whoa, take it down a notch. I knew you'd react that way. I only mean...maybe he just needed his space, you know? The idea of just vanishing for a while, having my own space...it's something I've dreamed of ever since I was a kid." She smiled. "Big family, remember?"

And that hit Sam hard, because he could completely understand her point of view. Hell, it was one he had shared growing up – not because he had a big family, but because his family was too _small_ , too intimate. It was a testament to how fucked up they were that Dean had spent his childhood doing everything he could to get their father’s attention, and all the while Sam was doing everything he could to escape it.

So, yeah. He could understand the impulse to get away. But it wasn't one Dean shared.

"No," he said. "Honestly, that's not like Dean at all. He wouldn't take off without telling me and let me worry like this for so long."

Unless he thought he was doing it to protect his younger brother somehow, in which case...yeah, Dean _would_ be stupid enough to do exactly that. Sam tried to ignore that possibility, because thinking too much about it would make him go crazy.

Thana ran her hand through her hair and blew out a long breath. "I guess we can start asking around. Maybe the guys down at the police department could help. They're pretty good, when they're not acting like total morons." She slapped her hands down on her thighs and stood, grabbing her bag. "Good, I like having a plan of action. But before we do that, why don't you come with me up to Lookout Point? I have to go collect some samples for my bio project. It's only about an hour from here, and...well, it's a good place to go to think. It helps me clear my head. Maybe you'll get some fresh ideas? You look like you've been turning over the same ones for a while now."

The two-lane park road wound its way among the trees for a few miles before starting its climb into the surrounding hills. The sunlight glowed through the pale green of the early summer leaves and caught the wildflowers bursting into bloom in the undergrowth. Birds flew overhead, and several times their passage startled a grazing deer.

"It's really pretty," Sam murmured. He cracked the window, letting the fresh green smell in. Thana smiled in agreement.

"I knew you'd like it."

They were in Thana's jeep. She had taken one look at the Impala and shook her head, telling Sam that he was coming in her car. It was nice to be sitting in the passenger seat for the first time in over a month. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend for a few seconds at a time that Dean was sitting next to him.

There were no other cars on the road, which Sam found surprising. On a beautiful day like this, he figured there would be a lot of tourists outside enjoying nature. Thana pointed out that it was still early in the season, and that most visitors waited until fall. The color changes as seen from the top of the mountain were spectacular.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the lookout station sitting high on the side of the mountain. Thana was right – the view was amazing. Sam stood at the edge of the platform and leaned over the banister, eyes scanning the sea of trees below. From his perspective the forest seemed to stretch out forever on every side. He was suddenly reminded of reading _The Hobbit_ as a kid and getting freaked out at the description of Mirkwood and its giant moths and spiders. Thana caught his eye from the ground below and waved to him.

"I'm going to go get the samples I need," she called, holding up some empty plastic bags. "It should only take me about half an hour – forty-five minutes, tops. You want to come with, or are you good there?"

"I'm fine," Sam answered. "This is perfect. Go do what you need to do." She had almost disappeared into the trees before Sam remembered to call out after her.

"Hey, Thana? Thank you."

She smiled, waved, and then she was gone.

The wind, which had died down considerably, began to pick up again not long after Thana had left, and Sam buttoned his flannel against the chill of the breeze. The clouds blew in and covered the sun, and the temperature dropped even further. Sam stood there stubbornly and let his eyes roam over the patches of green below, the trees waving in the cold wind which blew down the mountain.

_I'm here, Dean. This is where I'm supposed to be, right? What do I do next? Where are you?_

Eventually it was too cold to stand up on the top of the platform, so Sam wrapped his numb fingers around the ladder and carefully climbed down. It was warmer down there, sheltered among the overhanging trees, but it was much more difficult to see his surroundings. He had just made up his mind to climb back up and take his chances with the wind when a flash of red caught his attention.

It was a cardinal, perched on a low branch of the nearest tree. It cocked its head and peered at Sam, then flew off. It only went as far as the next tree into the forest, and then it paused. Sam could almost swear it was looking at him.

Without making a decision to do so, Sam found himself following the bird.

He wandered deeper into the forest, following the flashes of red. The sky grew darker around him as the clouds thickened and the sun sank. The canopy was thicker in this part of the woods, older, the trees standing tall and close together with almost no room for any undergrowth.

He supposed he should be worried about wandering away from the only person he knew – and his only means of shelter and transportation – but Sam found himself remarkably unconcerned. The wind whistled through the treetops with a moaning sound, and he could almost swear that he could make out the sound of voices on the wind.

He didn't know how long he walked after the cardinal, but it must have been a couple of hours. Eventually he reached a clearing where a single tree stood away from the others. It was old and gnarled, its trunk twisted and grey in the fading light. The clouds roiled overhead, and Sam could hear the noise of distant thunder.

The cardinal was perched on one of the other branches. It gave a warbling chirp when it caught sight of Sam, and without another sound it dove for his head.

"Hey!"

Sam ducked his head as the cardinal flew past his ear, its wings almost brushing the top of his head.

Wings. The rustle of wings in his ears...

...and Sam fell to the ground, crying out in agony at the sudden pain in his head.

_The rush of invisible wings. The rustle of a trench coat. Disapproving blue eyes._

Sam gasped and his eyes flew open, grasping for the memories that rushed into his brain in a sudden flood.

_Strength. Righteous anger. A deep, overarching sadness. "Sam, of course, is an abomination."_

"Cas," Sam breathed as the pain in his head eased. "Oh my God. Cas."

How could he have forgotten Castiel? He whimpered and clutched at his head as more memories poured in – angels, vessels, the apocalypse. Dean, handing him a knife, patching him up after a fight, standing outside Bobby's panic room as he dealt with the agony of withdrawal. The memories were coming faster and faster now, and he knew they weren't yet complete. He knew there was more to remember.

How could he not have _remembered_ this?

"Cas!" he called out to the lowering sky as soon as he was able to draw breath. "Cas! Castiel!"

His voice was stripped away by the rising wind. A crack of lightning illuminated the sky, although no rain fell, and in its sudden glare he saw Thana sitting in the branch of the tree where the cardinal had perched. The lightning momentarily illuminated a pair of wings that stretched from her shoulders, but as soon as he caught sight of them they were gone.

"You," he breathed, and swallowed hard against a sudden rush of nausea.

"He can't hear you," she said calmly, jumping down to the ground and landing lightly on her feet. She approached Sam, and he moved away from her with a sidestep that kept her in sight without letting her get any closer.

"Are you an angel?" he asked, and he could hear his voice shaking.

"Far from it," she answered, sounding amused.

"Why won't you let me talk to Castiel?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "I'm not keeping you from doing anything, Sam. I've not harmed him in any way. He simply cannot hear you at this time."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe you!" His head felt like it was splitting open. "What have you done with Dean?"

The pain ripped through him again, and he fell to his knees.

 

_The beer Dean hands him is cold, the bottle sweating in the open air, but he barely tastes it as he gulps it down. His brother sits next to him and cracks open his own beer, taking a long swallow._

_"Bobby asleep?"_

_Dean peels the label away from the bottle with his thumbnail before answering. "He's in bed. I don't think he'll be sleeping for a while."_

_There's nothing left to say to that._

_Sam stares into the fire and sees only Ellen's face in the crackle of the flames. Did she feel it, when the bombs went off? Did she get the chance to see her world lit up like the surface of the sun before she was blown apart, or was her death instantaneous? Did Jo feel anything, or was the agony of her wound already too much for her?_

_All for a fuckload of nothing. They'd had Lucifer right there and been unable to hurt him. Jo and Ellen and died for nothing, and it was all his fault._

_"Sam, don't."_

_Apparently his brother has turned into a mind reader. Sam doesn't even bother to ask what Dean is talking about. They both know, and it's too late in the day for circumvention._

_"You can't blame yourself." Dean's voice is low, but it ignites a fire in Sam._

_"How can you say that? This is all my fault! I'm the one who let him out. I'm the one who's destined to be his vessel. God, all those people...and I couldn't stop it." He swallows hard. "Maybe...maybe if I had said yes, then at least Jo and Ellen..."_

_He barely feels the punch, there and gone before he can react. He finds himself sprawled on the ground with a shaking hand pressed to his jaw, the remains of his beer spilled across the floor. Dean stands over him, vibrating with anger._

_"Don't you ever say that!" he shouts, and Sam casts a quick eye to the hall leading to the back room where Bobby is resting. "How could you..."_

_Dean grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and hauls him back into a sitting position, shaking him roughly. "You want someone to blame, you blame me, okay?" he growls. "I'm the one who froze when those Hellhounds attacked. If I'd been quicker, gotten off that shot just a bit sooner, Jo would be fine. She'd be fine, and none of this would have happened. I don't care what any fucking prophecies say about vessels and crap like that. That's out of your control, okay? I don't blame you for that."_

_"No," Sam says. His brother is crying, but he knows better than to comment on it. "You just blame yourself, even though you don't deserve it."_

_They sit huddled in front of the fireplace, slumped together in their shared misery as the long night wanes and the flames flicker and die._

 

Sam coughed and choked, spitting out bile. It was all coming back to him, memory by memory, each one stabbing his brain like a red-hot poker. He looked up to see Thana sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him, her hand stroking over his head. He didn't want to accept how soothing it felt.

"What did you do to me?" he croaked.

She shook her head, her hand moving gently through his hair.

"I didn't do anything to you, Sam Winchester. I've just prepared you."

She reached down to help him to a sitting position, her grip surprisingly strong. The pain and nausea eased as he sat upright, and Sam was finally able to take a deep breath without feeling like he was choking.

"Prepared me for what?" he asked.

"I'll show you," she said. She stood gracefully and held out her hand, and after a moment Sam took it and allowed her to help him to his feet.

She kept hold of his hand as she led him through the dark forest. Lightning broke the sky overhead and thunder rumbled almost continuously, a dry summer storm completely out of season. He didn't know how long he followed her as she wove among the trees, but eventually another burst of pain tore through his skull, and he slumped against a nearby tree.

 

_Dean's face is covered with blood and bruises. The bridge of his nose is crushed, his teeth bloodied. His face is almost unrecognizable. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he keeps the other fixed on Sam._

_"Sammy? It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you."_

_He mumbles the words through loosened teeth, but Sam can understand every syllable. He stands in front of his brother and raises his fist, bringing his arm back for one final blow._

 

"No!" Sam cried. Thana caught him as he collapsed and held him steady. He raised a shaking hand to grasp her shoulder.

"Did that really happen?" he begged. "Did I kill Dean? Did I kill my brother?"

She looked at him mutely, her face set in stone. The pain peaked, and he threw his head back and cried out in agony.

 

_The air hums around him, the power of the world filling every molecule of his being. He can sense every bit of life that crawls across the surface of the planet, from the arrogant humans on down to the tiniest microbe. All dirty, all diseased, none of it worthy of the glory of his Father._

_His to cleanse._

_Castiel explodes into nothingness at a single gesture. Bobby Singer's neck snaps, just because he wills it to be so. And Dean..._

_Dean is slumped on the grass at the base of his beloved car. He's barely breathing, and Sam can hear his lungs filling with blood. His frail human body won't hold out much longer. Still, he keeps his eyes fixed on his brother._

_"I'm not going to leave you, Sammy."_

_And suddenly Sam can breathe again, his actions his own. There's no time for tears, no time for apologies. He knows Dean understands. He knows Dean loves him, and it's the only thing that gives him the strength to throw the rings to the ground and speak the words that open the gates of Hell. Quickly, quickly, while his body is still his own, he allows himself to fall back into oblivion. Hands clutch at him, but it's too late. He smiles in triumph as he falls into the Pit._

_It's what he deserves._

 

"There it is," Thana murmured. "There's the last of it."

Sam leaned against the tree and lifted a shaking hand to wipe at his face. It came back covered in blood – whether from a bloody nose or a head wound from slamming his head against the bark, he didn’t know.

It didn't really matter.

"I remember now," he croaked. His throat ached, swollen with tears, and he could barely get the words out. "I said yes to Lucifer, and I fell into the Pit."

Thana nodded solemnly. "And now you finally understand, don't you, Sam? It was never Dean who was lost."

She raised her hand and cupped his face. Her eyes were piercing when they caught his.

"You were the one who was lost all along, Sam."

He didn't know how long he sat there at the base of the tree. His memories were back, all of them, and it was all he could do to keep taking slow, careful breaths as they integrated themselves back into his brain.

"I fell into the Pit," he said faintly. He knew he'd said it before, but it bore repeating. "That means I'm...."

Thana nodded. "Yes, Sam. You are."

She rose to her feet, and in front of his eyes her form began to shift and waver. Her skin rippled and remade itself, and within a few seconds a middle-aged woman with graying dark hair stood in front of him.

"Gilly?"

She shrugged. "I have many names. Thanatos and Giltine are two of them."

She took Sam's hand and helped him easily to his feet. He swayed for a moment before he caught his balance, and he kept his hand on the tree to keep himself steady.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Sam shook his head. "Ready for what?"

She smiled, teeth white in the darkness under the trees. "I told you I worked in construction. Don't you want to see my final project?"

Sam followed her through the forest, and thankfully she moved slowly enough that he had no problem keeping up with her in his weakened state. Within a few minutes, the trees opened up into a large clearing. Sam stepped out into the clearing and let his mouth drop open in shock.

The trees fell away as he walked forward, forest growth becoming grassy plains. But the plains themselves were cut short. No more than a dozen yards away lay a vast wall. It stretched from horizon to horizon, left to right, as far as he could see. He had no idea how high it was – the top was lost in the clouds that still covered the darkening sky. It was featureless and inhumanly smooth, without joint or crack. He wanted to touch it and see what it was made of, but it was so alien and forbidding that he shied away from the thought.

Gilly walked toward the wall, and as she moved her form rearranged itself again. By the time she turned back to Sam, she was wearing Mort's form.

"My masonry project," he said proudly. "A little thing to pass the time before the harvest comes."

Mort's body twisted and flexed, skin and muscles melting off in a bloody slide of flesh until just the bare bones stood before Sam. The skeletal figure picked up a large scythe that had been propped unnoticed by Sam at the base of the wall.

"Would this form be more familiar to you?"

Again the body twisted and reformed itself. It took the shape of a man with dark blue skin and four arms riding a buffalo, then changed into a young child swathed in white cloth, then into a young woman with kohl-lined eyes and a pale, pretty face, dressed all in black with an ankh pendant around her neck.

And then, with a final shift, it seemed to settle on the body of a human man. He was a good deal shorter than Sam, slight and middle-aged with a sallow complexion. He was dressed in an exquisitely fitted suit and tie, and his nose and ears were prominent in his thin face. His eyes, though, were the same piercing eyes Sam was already familiar with.

"You have not yet seen me in this form," the man said in a low, melodic voice. "It is the one I used when I met your brother in Chicago and gave him my ring."

Sam backed against the nearest tree, afraid that his knees were going to give out.

"Death," he breathed.

The man nodded, looking faintly amused. "That is also one of my names."

Sam swallowed hard, staring up at the wall that stretched beyond the reach of his sight, then back at the man in front of him. "What do you want from me?"

"I already told you," Death said. "I need to show you my final project. You have a choice to make, Sam." He raised a thin hand and caressed the wall with it. "Isn't it beautiful?"

As he touched it, the wall shimmered with a faint glow of energy. Sam found himself stepping toward it, desperate to see what it felt like, then stopped himself.

"What's it for?" he asked.

Without a word, Death crooked a finger at him. Sam came closer slowly, invited this time, and approached the wall gingerly. As he neared it he could see that it in fact contained a single imperfection: a dark opening the size of a cinder block, about six feet off the ground.

"Take a look," Death murmured, "and you'll see what the wall is for."

The wall was smooth and solid under his fingertips, cold as ice, and Sam gave a faint shudder as the chill of ran under his skin. Taking a moment to brace himself, he leaned forward against the wall and lowered his eyes to the opening.

He lasted less than a second before he was falling back to the ground in shock, his heart racing as if it would explode and his own hoarse cry ringing in his ears. He closed his eyes and shuddered, willing himself to forget the landscape of fire and torment he had seen on the other side of the wall, the Bosch-like agonies, the monstrous forms that defied the comprehension of the human mind. One glimpse, less than a second, and his whole being cried out to be purged of the memory.

"Was that...Hell?" he asked as soon as he was able to speak.

"Yes, it was. Of course, this is too, in a sense." Death patted the wall and traced a finger around the edge of the opening. Sam shuddered and looked away. "Not a very pleasant place, is it? The Cage can so rarely be opened, but when it is? What beautiful agonies you can see inside."

"I don't remember that," Sam muttered. "Shouldn't I remember that, from when I fell?" He didn't want to, but it seemed very important that he should.

"That's what the wall is for, Sam," Death said slowly, as if speaking to a very stupid child. "It's to keep you from those memories, memories powerful enough to twist a soul until it barely qualifies as human anymore."

A flash of lighting split the sky above. Sam slowly got to his feet, even though the greatest part of him wanted to curl in on himself in a fetal position and rock himself with his hands over his head like a child. He faced Death, avoiding the opening in the wall, and clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from wobbling.

"You said I had a choice to make."

Death nodded. "Indeed you do. As you can see, the wall isn't quite completed yet. I need your permission to lay the final brick and seal it. When it is done, you will have no memory of your time in the Pit. You will be free to return to your life above, if you choose."

Sam froze, his mind in turmoil. "I...I won't have to remember?"

"That is correct. Provided the wall holds, of course." Death shrugged. "It's a tricky business, tinkering with a human soul. There are sometimes...consequences."

"And I can go back," Sam said faintly. "And Lucifer will stay locked in the Cage? I won't free him again if I leave, will I?"

Death inclined his head. "Lucifer and Michael remain behind. You won't bring any part of them with you, and no part of you will remain behind."

"I don't understand," Sam croaked. "Why do you need my permission?"

"It is possible for a soul to be raised from Hell," Death said, pacing slowly in front of the wall. "It has happened many times before. Your own brother was a recipient of such a gift. But no soul can be raised against its will. Dean made a choice of his own before the angel Castiel, although he has no memory of it."

Sam let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Does anyone really say no?"

Death turned his dark, piercing eyes on Sam. "You tell me, young Winchester," he murmured. "Are you so quick to agree?"

 

_Bobby's corpse lies on the ground, neck twisted and eyes staring sightlessly at the empty sky. Dean coughs his life's blood onto the dying grass, cradling a broken arm against his chest._

_"Sammy," he whispers. "It's okay."_

 

Sam blinked away the tears in his eyes. "You never answered my question," he said hoarsely. "Did I kill my brother? After I fell with Lucifer...did Dean die?"

Death looked at him, eyes hooded. "That's something I can't tell you."

"Can't, or won't?" Sam challenged.

Death shrugged. "Either way, it is immaterial to your choice. Your brother may have died, in which case his soul is no longer on the Earth. He may have survived. You still have a decision to make. Do you complete the wall, and do you return to claim the life you so carelessly abandoned above?"

Sam fell to his knees on the cold ground and cradled his head in his hands. "Dean," he murmured, but there was no sense of his brother's presence. It was truly a blind choice. If Dean was dead at his hand, there was no way he'd be able to go back to living a normal life. He'd sooner stay in the Pit. And if Dean had somehow managed to survive...there could be no way he'd ever forgive Sam for everything that had happened.

"Not an easy choice after all, is it?" Death said.

Sam scrubbed at his dripping nose, heedless of the tears that fell. "I don't deserve to go back," he said in a choked voice. "After everything I've done, I deserve to stay right here."

"Perhaps." Sam lifted his head to see Death smooth his hand over the wall again. "Perhaps not. The question of what you deserve is beyond my purview. The decision is yours. What is your answer?"

After all of the agonies that had been visited upon the world because he was too weak, too arrogant, too certain of his own righteousness? How could he possibly return to live among the rest of humanity again like he was one of them, like his soul wasn't a twisted, broken thing? What could he possibly do to repair the damage he'd done?

 

_"It's not your fault, Sam. I don't blame you."_

 

"You should!" he cried aloud, raising his voice to the heavens. "You should blame me! Why do you always take it on yourself, Dean? Why do you..."

His voice fell away, shocked into silence by a sudden realization. If there was anything he and Dean had in common, it was their endless capacity for self-blame. It was the Winchester curse, instilled in them from the earliest moments of their lives, the lesson learned at their father's knee. Why give anyone else the chance to torment you when you can do it so well yourself?

He knew Dean blamed himself for the deal he'd made with the crossroads demon, even though it had saved Sam's life. Dean knew how badly his death would hurt Sam and he hated himself for it, even as he made the choice to go through with it.

And yet, according to Death, he'd still made the choice to return from Hell when offered the opportunity. After everything that had been done to him, after being turned by Alistair into a creature he loathed, he still made the choice to go back. Sam knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dean thought he deserved to stay in Hell. So why had he come back, when every ingrained fiber of his being must have been screaming for him to stay and accept the punishment he thought he deserved?

"I know why," Sam croaked. "I know. He did it for me. He came back for me."

He had told Bobby that Dean was the strongest person he knew, and he'd believed it. He just never knew the depths of Dean’s strength – enough to overcome a lifetime of ingrained guilt, just for his brother. Could Sam be that strong in return?

And with that, the decision was made. After everything, it was remarkably easy.

Sam straightened up and wiped the tears from his face. "I'm going back," he told Death firmly. "Finish the wall, and get me the hell out of here."

Death eyed him curiously. "So certain. Even if your brother didn't survive? You still wish to be returned?"

Sam nodded. It would probably kill him, but it was something he had to do. It was time to for both of them to stop the endless cycle of guilt. 

"After everything he's done for me, this is the least I can do for him," he said. "I won't hurt him by staying down here just to ease my own guilty conscience."

Death smiled. "Very well, Sam Winchester."

He held out his hand. A large brick appeared in it, and he held it effortlessly aloft as if it weighed nothing at all. With a twist of his wrist he lifted it and fitted it into the opening into wall. It slid in smoothly, and when Death pressed his hand against it the seams disappeared. Sam couldn't see where the hole had been to begin with it. Death held out his hand.

"It is done. Are you ready?"

Sam reached out to take Death's hand, then hesitated.

"One last thing I don't understand. You're Death. I mean, you're one of the freaking Horsemen. Why are you spending so much time building walls for me and patching holes in my soul? I'm not that important."

"Indeed, you're not," Death said dryly. "At least you recognize that, which is a start. Perhaps in time you’ll learn true humility. But to answer your question, you and your brother have caused a serious disruption in the natural order of things. Starting and stopping apocalypses, throwing away your lives and having them returned to you, breaking and rebuilding and breaking again. I'm tired of it. But as much as it pains me to bend the natural order one more time to return you, there are greater things at stake than your individual soul. Great wrongs have been done in which you have participated, no matter how unwillingly. You must play your part in restoring the balance."

Sam swallowed. "I understand," he said.

Death's smile was cold. "I highly doubt that. Besides, you overestimate your own importance. Exactly how much time do you think I have spent on you?"

"I...About a month? I don't know. That's when I woke up at Bobby's, so...I figure that's when you started building the wall, right?"

"You do remember that time passes differently in Hell, yes? In Earth time, a grand total of..." – Death checked an elegant wristwatch – "...three and a half seconds have passed since I came down to Hell to raise you out."

"Three and a half seconds?" Sam said faintly.

"Truly, a lifetime from my perspective, but there is only so much one can do with the limitations of the human soul. You creatures understand so little about how your own minds work. Now, do we leave, or shall we stay and talk for another lifetime?"

Sam reached out and took Death's hand. As the bony fingers closed around his, Death pulled him forward.

"Listen to me carefully, because this is very important," Death said in a low voice. "The wall is beautiful but fragile. You must resist the temptation to touch it, because I don't know how well it will be able to maintain its integrity in the face of continued assault. Do you understand me? Don't touch the wall. Don't try to remember."

Death raised his other hand and laid it against Sam's forehead. Sam gasped and let his eyes fall shut. Everything from the last month was fading away – waking up at Bobby's house, meeting Gilly at the bar, Mort and Dacoma, Thana and Pilot Knob, the forest and the great wall and the horror that lay beyond. Sam struggled, the memories dropping through his mind like water escaping through cupped fingers.

Death tightened his grip on Sam's hand. "No, don’t fight it," he said even as Sam gasped and squirmed. "Don't try to remember. Just let it go."

So Sam let go and opened his eyes and allowed himself to float in Death's strong grasp as his mind emptied. He felt weightless and hollow, adrift. The trees disappeared from view, then the wall, and finally Death himself. The light grew brighter and brighter around him, and if he'd still had eyes he would have had to shut them tight against the brilliance of the glow.

When the light began to fade he found himself floating above a small room, and with a start of vague recognition he knew it to be the panic room in Bobby's basement. Bobby himself stood against the wall, alive by some miracle, and _Dean_...oh, God. Dean leaned against the door frame whole and unbroken, and Sam wanted to weep for joy.

Dean was staring at the cot in the middle of the room, his lips thinned and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. When Sam glanced over to see what Dean was looking at, he felt a vague shock as he saw his own body tied to the cot. His body was pleading, screaming. Sam wanted to tell Dean that it was okay, that it was going to be all right, but he had no form with which to speak. The light grew around him again, and he found himself screaming right along with his body. The last thing he heard was a voice speaking in his mind, inexorable and unavoidable. He didn't recognize the voice and had no context for what it said, but somehow he knew that its words were vitally important.

_Remember, Sam. Don't scratch the wall._


End file.
